Assassination
by StarkContrastStartles
Summary: The brown hair, once streaking behind her, now whipped the underside of the black helmet shielding her face from onlookers. One hand was poised near her gun, the other steering the motorcycle with a graceful ease. She was a deadly assassin ready to shoot.


_**Quick one shot based on the beginning scene of Shalom – the flashback – and what Ziva says at the end of the episode. The killer side of Ziva was not shown often enough in the earlier seasons and is now almost never shown – a waste of a character's interesting past, I think. Please review.**_

Two black motorcycles broke out of the convoy and streaked down a side road. Only then did they become suspicious, for before they were just another two motorcycles in the gathering of bike enthusiasts.

They wound through the narrow streets, shooting past startled passersby without glancing up. The two riders were covered head to toe in tight black leather and their faces were shielded from sight by a tinted glass visor. It was even unclear which gender each was. Neither spoke as they followed the meandering roads, nor did either acknowledge the other, though they kept pace and stuck close together. Two black holstered guns were camouflaged by the dense blackness that shrouded the riders and a quick flash was the only indication of their knives concealed in black sheaves.

Five men stood on the kerb outside an expensive restaurant, waiting for the valet to bring them their limousine. One stood out as wealthier and more powerful than the others, partly by his expensive suit, partly from the fact that he was surrounded by the other men as a human shield.

The motorbikes flew round the corner and the two figures both reached for their guns. The action was too fast for the men to understand and five gun shots could be heard in quick succession. The biker in front fired four times, once for each of the bodyguards. The second motorcyclist pulled the trigger only once, aimed directly in between the target's eyes.

The five men fell down at once, their hands free from any weapon as the attack had been too fast. Bystanders screamed hysterically and a handful of heroic men rushed to the dead men's sides to see if anything could be done. All eyes were on the retreating bikes as they sped round the next corner out of sight.

The assassin's guns were refilled and replaced in their holsters. The pair never looked back to see the damage they inflicted but two smiles curled up under their helmets. They had little time to rejoin the group of motorbikes to remain hidden but neither worried about their ability to complete their job undiscovered. The bikes streaked through more side streets and came to the main road at the exact time as the parade was passing. They split up and slipped unnoticed into the envoy. Their plan had been executed impeccably and they had accomplished their deadly task.

The pair did not meet up until the next day when they were sure that it was safe. The motorbikes had been burned in an alley and the clothes ripped apart and dumped down a drain. The helmets were thrown in front of a lorry and crushed. Only once all evidence had successfully been disposed of, did they reveal their faces to the world. They had no lingering qualms about being seen so they strolled down the roads they had graced the day before on motorcycles. Some of the witnesses to the shooting were there, still being questioned. The pair sauntered right by them, without blinking and without being recognised.

The leader of the pair, a thin man with a mocking face, allowed a slight smile to appear on his tanned face only twenty minutes after they had passed the crime scene. He turned to his partner and spoke to her in a foreign accent, 'We did it again.'

The woman shook a wild mane of brown curls, and nodded her sculpted face, the light glistening on the thin layer of sweat accumulating on the smooth, olive skin. 'Yes we did,' she replied throatily.

They boarded a cargo plane later that morning and left the country of their most recent assassination. The woman turned before she stepped into the bowels of their ride and took one last look at America. She smiled appreciatively, liking the civilised scenery opposing her common view of blood and dust back home in Israel. Little did she know that this would become a familiar picture. One day, she would be returning and would stay. One day, she would leave Israel and become an official citizen of America, the land of her ninth assassination. One day, she would meet the federal agents investigating her victim, a Naval Officer and his bodyguards. One day, she would abandon her country and pledge allegiance to the country she now regards with a passing appreciation. One day, this would become her home and she would give up the sleek assassinations. One day, she would become more than just a killer.

The brown hair, once streaking behind her, now whipped the underside of the black helmet shielding her face from onlookers. One hand was poised near her gun, the other steering the motorcycle with a graceful ease. Her eyes remained keenly on the motorcycle in front. The target swam into view and her gun was aimed at the bridge of his nose. Her dead eyes swivelled back to the motorcycle in front, displaying no emotion for the life she had so quickly ended. She was not here to care, she was following orders. She slipped another round of bullets into her gun with her free hand, ready for any attack. Her hand went back to the handlebars which would soon be cinders behind a shop somewhere. Then, once all loose ends were tied up, she would be ready for the next assassination she was handed.


End file.
